


Anniversary

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And inventive in bed, Community: come_at_once, Fluff, Graphic Sex, I'm just happy I avoided the angst, Intense Orgasms, It will rot your teeth, John likes this very much, M/M, PWP, Porn, Promise, Prompt: Anniversary, References to A Study In Pink, Romance, Sherlock is really very sweet, Sherlock's a bit of a scientist even in bed, This is insipid as fuck, Vibrators, misuse of sex toys, new experiences, sherlock makes up for it with inventive sex, sorry for the uninventive title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's normally the one who remembers all the conventionally important dates. But Sherlock is far from conventional, and it shouldn't be surprising that he's celebrating something John seems to have overlooked. But it's a bit of a surprise, in the best possible way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [come_at_once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com/) porn writing challenge at LJ. My prompt was: Anniversary.
> 
> Warning: Seriously people, don’t try any of this stuff at home. ~~I have no idea if what I’ve described works the way I think it does, so best not to rely on it.~~ This *definitely* doesn't work the way it's described in this fic. Don't put external toys inside you, where they don't belong, whether you've got male bits or female ones. (Thanks M! ;) The vibrator described is a fairly cheap one, costing roughly ten pounds. People who’re into toys might scoff, but that is literally the only one that comes in the shade of pink I was looking for. I have researched this. *nods sagely*

John’s the one who remembers all the important dates. Birthdays, anniversaries, celebrations, deadlines etc. Greg’s taken to texting John the details of court appearances instead of Sherlock, because he’s by far more reliable. It makes John feel a bit like a glorified secretary sometimes, but it’s just part and parcel of what life is like with Sherlock Holmes. It’s all balanced out, most of the times. But the point remains, that John’s the one who remembers the important stuff.

That’s why he’s not expecting it when Sherlock wakes him up with bed in breakfast, one morning. That’s distinct I’ve-done-something-horrific-and-am-apologising-ex-post-facto, or I’m-about-to-do-something-horrific-and-am-apologising-ex-ante behaviour. (Possibly it’s something-horrific-is-on-going-and-I’m-distracting-you-with-food behaviour, but that thought makes John’s head hurt.) It puts John on edge, because he’s expecting… Well.

He’s expecting nothing pleasant, that’s for sure.

He eyes Sherlock narrowly, and takes careful note of how absurdly pleased he looks, like he’s just singlehandedly found the cure for cancer. Speaking of which, “drugs?” he asks, patting the space beside him, on their bed. _Their_ bed. The idea still makes him smile. He hides it behind a mouth full of eggs, which are really surprisingly good. He hums in appreciation.

Sherlock scowls but sits down, curling into him like an overgrown cat. He’s warm through his thin t-shirt, and he smells like he’s already showered, fragrant with expensive shampoo. John kisses the top of his head, because Sherlock is sometimes shockingly affectionate, and John’s always liked to indulge that.

There’s only one fork, but he offers Sherlock a slice of perfectly fried tomato anyway, and Sherlock accepts. It’s downright unnerving. Sherlock doesn’t eat unless he’s hungry. Sherlock’s not hungry, because if he was, he’d have brought a second fork. John’s lived with this man for years now. He knows his methods. He feels his blood pressure go up.

He finishes his breakfast and puts the tray aside. Sherlock is still silent, reading something on his phone. The silence doesn’t unnerve John like it used to. There’s nothing awkward about it. They’re comfortable in their own skins, and at this point, they’re little more than extensions of each other. It’s possibly (probably) unhealthy, but they passed that point the day John shot a man to save Sherlock’s life.

“So,” he ventures, “do you want to tell me what that was all about?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Go take a shower,” he instructs, and John huffs a laugh. Like he hadn’t been about to do that, regardless. Sherlock just liked getting the last word, even when they weren’t really arguing. He’s a prat, but he presses a kiss to John’s palm as he leaves, anyway.

He takes a shower, and tries to not worry too much. Worst come to worst, he’ll have to call Mycroft, whether Sherlock likes it or not. John is almost always glad that he’s come to be friends with the other man. He is always glad, until he remembers the bugs that seem to turn up in their flat on a regular basis. Sherlock never lets them last for long, but it’s a monthly cycle. John had once suggested giving Mycroft (and his minions) a free show, just to scare them off, but the colour of Sherlock’s face had convinced him that it was a bad idea. Still, Mycroft is useful, on occasion. Like when both of them need to be bailed at the same time.

He opens the door of the bathroom to find Sherlock, standing in the doorway, shirtless. It’s not like it’s anything he hasn’t seen before, but it’s always breath-taking, how beautiful the man is. Still, he’s not expecting the looming presence, and he jumps, a little. Sherlock is watching him with pale, intense eyes. He’s deducing. John leaves him to it, combing his hair with his fingers, waiting for Sherlock to be done.

When Sherlock finally lets him through the door way, he’s a little cold. He’s only got one towel wrapped around his hips, and all the warm misty heat of the bathroom had escaped through the open door. He’s about to pull on his undershirt, when he feels Sherlock’s hands slide around his waist.

He stills (because he’s not good with surprises), and then relaxes (because he’d recognize Sherlock’s hands _anywhere_ ). Sherlock’s half hard, behind him, which is yet another surprise, because while Sherlock is enthusiastic and inventive in bed, he’s not prone to random hormonal fluctuations. Sex generally has to be initiated with care and aforethought, because once they’re at it, Sherlock doesn’t let up until John can’t feel his dick anymore. It’s endearing, and incredibly hot. John prefers having sex on weekends, because he doesn’t like showing up to work limping for reasons _other_ than his psychosomatic limp.

Well, he doesn’t like that either, but you get the point.

“Hello there,” he says, fondly, turning to face Sherlock, still encircled by his arms. “What’s the occasion?”

“Don’t go in to work, today.” Sherlock’s looking down, straight into his eyes, and John can’t even to be bothered at how stupidly tall his lover is.

He huffs a laugh. “Can’t do that, Sherlock. Sarah’s expecting me.”

“No,” Sherlock says, quietly but surely, “she’s not.”

John blinks. “She’s not?” And he regrets it immediately, because Sherlock has absolutely no patience for people who repeat after him. He thinks it’s the highest form of stupidity, which explains his aversion to Anderson, who spends all of his time incredulous and disbelieving of Sherlock’s abilities.

Sherlock, for his part, hasn’t seemed to notice. “No, she’s not.” John’s is almost 95% sure Sherlock’s been replaced by a pod person. “I called it in. There’s another doctor taking your shift. You’ve been rescheduled for Monday.”

That means John has the whole of today, and the weekend off. It’s a nice surprise. He’s not angry. Really, he isn’t. It’s not like he hasn’t called Greg on Sherlock’s behalf, and asked for days off because Sherlock was ill, before. It’s fairly high handed, but they’re almost used to it. And Sherlock is actually very responsible. He respects John’s job. He respects John, mostly, and this kind of thing doesn’t happen often. So John’s pretty willing to give Sherlock a pass on that.

“Is there any particular reason?” he asks, modulating his tone. He’s not annoyed. He’s not. Sherlock’s his best friend, and his partner. He trusts the man with his life.

He graces John with a smile. A Sherlock smile, not a fake, normal-people smile, and it’s _lovely_. John wants to kiss it. So he does. Sherlock has obscene lips. Everything about Sherlock is obscene. But especially his lips. Kissing them feels like a luxury. Sherlock kisses back, but they’re both still standing in the middle of the cold bedroom, shirtless, and the difference in height is mostly leg, so any minute John’s going to get a crick in his neck.

Sherlock obviously, knows John’s body better than John does. Because he’s Sherlock, and god forbid he not know something. So he bullies John backwards, interlocking their legs in an awkward crab shuffle, until he lands on the bed with a _thump_. He grins up at Sherlock, who’s still standing at the edge of the bed, smiling back at him. John’s looking forward to ruining his hair.

“It’s our anniversary,” Sherlock says, shucking off his pyjama bottoms. He’s wearing nothing underneath, which distracts John for a full 10 seconds, before he registers what Sherlock had said.

“Our what?” he asks, stunned.

Sherlock grins at him, and the hazy happiness has evaporated from John’s countenance. He’s still  happy, of course, but now he’s shocked too. “Our anniversary. The first day we met, John. Do you remember?”

John can’t even hold in his giggle. The tension is gone from his shoulders, before he’d even realised it was there. “You daft bastard, as if I could forget it!” He’s relieved. Because he’s been going through worst case scenarios in his head, all morning. He’d had no clue that it was today. It is typical that Sherlock would remember this, of all things. It’s a marvel that no one believes him when he says Sherlock is actually very sweet. “With your great big flappy coat, and taking me to Angelo’s, Mr. I’m-married-to-my-work.”

He’s teasing. Sherlock knows he’s teasing. He’s got a stupid smile on his face that he couldn’t erase for all the money in the world. But Sherlock sobers for a moment. “I didn’t realise, John. I didn’t—”

“Hush, you,” John cuts him off, because he should never apologise for that. John didn’t regret a single minute of their time spent together. He doesn’t regret the path they had to take to get here. Not a single step of it. They are who they are, because of what they did. What they’ve been through. “Come here,” he says, and shuffles backwards, so he’s propped up against the headboard.

Sherlock gets on his knees and crawls, stopping between John’s spread legs. He undoes the knot in John’s towel reverently, like he’s unwrapping a present. It makes John flush, and squirm under the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. He’s nothing special, but somehow this miracle of a man loves him like he is. His cock is flushed and hard, and so is Sherlock’s, so they’re clearly on the same page.

Sherlock runs his warm hands up and down John’s hips and torso, and kisses his bellybutton, before retreating off the bed. John feels like the room is about 50 degrees colder without Sherlock draped over him.

But before he can open his mouth to say anything, Sherlock rummaging around under the bed. He re-emerges with a small black box. “I have a present.”

John grins. “Get back here. I’m cold.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, but obliges and plasters himself to John’s body. They’re both hard, pressed into each other and ready to go, but today is not a day for rushing. Sherlock’s hands slide between John’s body and the bedspread, and squeeze his arse. John thrusts up in retaliation, grinning and not bothering to disguise his heavy exhale as anything other than what it is.

“Open it,” Sherlock rumbles, still speaking into John’s neck. He doesn’t bother turning around.

John does. Out falls a small, shockingly pink clitoral vibrator. He laughs, because he can’t help it. A Study in _Pink_!

“It was the only one I could find with that exact shade.” John’s still laughing though, and Sherlock’s definitely smiling into his neck (John can feel his teeth), pleased.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John whispers, “I love it.” And it’s true. He’s not just saying it. It is incredibly – it’s clearly something that Sherlock’s put thought into. That’s more than enough to make it meaningful to John. He fits it back into the foam casing in the black box, and he’s about to put it away when he realises that Sherlock’s looking at him. It’s a very telling look, but John’s not sure what it’s saying. “What?” he asks.

“Don’t you want to use it?”

“Neither of us have a clit, you know.” It’s half amused, and half serious. One never knows what exactly Sherlock has deleted.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but even that is somehow affectionate. “I have actually had sex with you before, John. The lack of female sex organs will not hamper us, today.”

John grins. Sherlock being snarky in bed is a sure indicator that things will be interesting, today. “Oh,” he says, tightening his arms around Sherlock’s back. “Do elaborate.” Sherlock responds by snaking his arm out from under John and roughly thumbing at a hard nipple. John shivers, and Sherlock latches onto John’s neck, kissing and sucking and biting, bruising. It’s a good thing they have three days until John needs to be at work. There’s no way he’d be able to hide the resulting bruise.

The vibrator is small but sturdy looking. There are no fiddly bits and it seems fairly straightforward, with one button to turn it on and off. It is a truly garish shade of pink, and it brings back all sorts of memories. John hums deep in his chest when Sherlock laves the bruise over with his tongue.

“The charge,” Sherlock starts, moving up and away, “lasts for ten hours.” John shivers again. He hopes he’s not expected to last that long. He sits up for a kiss first, though, just because he wants to. Sherlock is very obliging. “Just trust me. I’ll take care of you.”

Nodding, John responds, “I do, and ‘course you will.”

Sherlock reaches beneath the bed and his hand returns with a bottle of lube. He should have known that Sherlock would have planned this out to the smallest detail. He squeezes some out, and leans over John to lick at his cock. It makes for a somewhat ridiculous picture, with Sherlock licking him like one would a lollypop, but there’s nothing funny about the way it makes him feel. Sherlock nudges his thighs wider apart with his knees, and crouches over him, apparently settling in for the long haul.

“I,” he says, taking the tip of John’s cock into his mouth experimentally. “Want to make you feel the way you made me feel the first time I saw you.” John doesn’t have the time to respond before Sherlock takes him in his mouth properly. He’s unfairly good at this - his mouth is hot, and soft, and wet; his teeth stay tucked carefully behind his lips until they’re wanted. Sherlock is in bed, what he is outside it; that is, thorough, focused and detail-oriented. He’s also messy, which is much more fun in bed than it is outside. He performs minor miracles with his tongue, and it’s not long before John’s moaning with it, petting Sherlock’s hair with increasing frequency. Sherlock should know what that means, by now. He finally presses a slick finger into John, slow and deep, and the slight discomfort is enough to bring him off the edge.

He eases up on John’s cock, but presses in another finger, sure, and unrelenting. John takes a shuddering breath. They’ve done this enough times that he knows what to expect, but not nearly enough times for it to be boring. And still, somehow, Sherlock manages to surprise him. Instead of a third finger, Sherlock pulls his hand away, and wipes it perfunctorily on the bed-sheets. John honestly doesn’t have the focus to tell him off for it. Sherlock’s fingers inside him had been very pleasant, but not nearly enough. He opens his mouth to complain, but Sherlock shoots him a look. He closes his mouth.

Sherlock finds the bullet and clicks it on. The hum is audible, and it makes John giggle because it looks ridiculous, small and pink and humming, in Sherlock’s long fingers. Sherlock pulls his mouth of John’s cock with a loud, wet slurp, and glares. He presses the small thing to the underside of John’s balls, and John’s giggles stop. It feels. It feels _indescribable_. It’s quite strong, he thinks, and it’s not pleasure, exactly, but it’s sensation, and it makes him want _more_.

Sherlock is watching him very carefully. He rubs it around John’s hole, in the lube that has dripped out of John, and it makes John gasp. His breath hitches and he’s completely still, in anticipation. He’s never done this before. This is completely new, and he aches with wanting. Sherlock’s free palm is stroking his thigh gently as he feeds the bullet into John, bit by bit.

It’s _obscene_. John feels like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. He can feel the tremors deep inside him, all the way in his head, and it’s still not pleasure, until Sherlock slides a finger in, alongside the bullet. It fills him up enough to press the vibrations directly against his prostate, and _there’s_ the pleasure, and it’s sharp and blinding, and it makes him _yelp_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears, because there’s nothing else left in his head. Sherlock had pulled the toy out the moment John had yelped, and is looking at him with concern and curiosity in his eyes. His heart’s going fast, and he’s absolutely sure that the shock of it had made his cock twitch. His cheeks are flushed and he thinks he feels the prickle of sweat beading on his forehead. He’s only ever seen things like this happening in terrible porn flicks. He’d never believed it was real. But Sherlock defied his belief on a regular basis, and there is no reason that it would be any different in bed. He takes a deep breath. “Again, but don’t take it out until I tell you to.”

Sherlock nods and presses his lips against John’s hip. It’s more than enough reassurance to calm his galloping heart. At some point, the atmosphere in the room had changed. It always did. They had started off giggling and light hearted, and this, this is different. Lust is heavy in the air, and it doesn’t feel like there’s nearly enough oxygen in the room. Sherlock’s hand on his thigh is the only thing that’s keeping him grounded, and it’s a miracle. Sex with Sherlock has always been intense. John thinks it’s because Sherlock is actually seeing through every mask, through the vulnerability of being naked in bed with someone else. It’s a good thing that John’s into that. John’s into _Sherlock._

The bullet slips into him, and John doesn’t have enough time to tense before pleasure is wracking through his body, and this time Sherlock doesn’t let up. It presses against the sweet spot inside him, and doesn’t move. John’s toes start curling, and his hips are bucking, and he’s probably making the most ridiculous noises, but there’s nothing in his head but the direct stimulation inside him. Heat is pooling in his belly and he wants to come so badly, he’s _gasping_ for it, but he needs something else. Barely a minute passes in exquisite torture, and when Sherlock’s fingers wrap around his cock, it becomes too much.

He comes, with Sherlock’s name on his lips, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving and his heart racing. He has to lay there and be silent for a minute, and through the sound of his blood rushing in his ears, he can hear Sherlock switch the toy off and toss it aside. At some point, Sherlock had slipped his hand into John’s, and he’s still squeezing his slender fingers tight.

Sherlock’s warm, heavy weight drapes over him, and counterintuitively it’s somehow easier to breathe, because Sherlock is there with him. He can feel Sherlock’s heart beating in tandem with his. Their fingers are still tangled. Sherlock’s cock is still hard, pressed against his side. There’s a wet disaster in between their bellies, and John does not actually recall what had happened. He thinks his mind has been broken.

Sherlock’s kissing his cheek, and his ear, and his jawline, even though it’s far less impressive than his own. He looks fascinated, and loving, and he’s clearly running thoughts over in his head. John’s still breathing heavy when Sherlock whispers, “Will you do that to me?”

John laughs out loud, because yes, that’s typical Sherlock. And he shouldn’t even have bothered asking. Sherlock’s looking at John like one would look at a deity, like he’s just ascended from heaven in a golden glow. It’s what John feels like, anyway.

Sherlock’s smiling, because he always smiles when John laughs. It makes John want to kiss him, so he does, despite the fact that he’s not exactly able to move. Sherlock accommodates the kiss, pressing in to deepen it, with one hand splayed on John’s face, a thumb stroking his cheekbones and his fingers pressed into John’s hair. It’s gorgeously intimate, and John never wants it to stop.

“Yes,” he finally responds, because it occurs to him that Sherlock’s still waiting for an answer. “Yes, of course I will, darling.” Sherlock makes the same face he always does when John calls him that, but really, John knows he likes it more than he cares to admit.

Sherlock beams at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and John loves this man so much, he does not have the words. “Happy Anniversary, Sherlock.”


End file.
